


Better Than a Lifetime Alone

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, I keep trying to write serious angst and ending up with fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), body issues, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 11:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: Even after throwing off Heaven and Hell, six thousand years leaves its mark, and even the most innocuous remarks can throw Aziraphale into a tailspin.Lucky Crowley is always there to pull him out of it.





	Better Than a Lifetime Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from One Year of Love because I'm not going to stop writing Good Omens until I run out of Queen lyrics.

The months after the A-nope-alypse are some of the best Aziraphale can remember, which is quite a feat considering he’s lived through six thousand years of human history, and a bit of celestial history before that.

(He doesn’t really count that. There isn’t much worth remembering. No one had written any good books yet, there were no plays to see, no signature dish to take him back in his memories. No Crowley. Though he supposes there was Crowley, he just would have been called something different then and Aziraphale hadn’t met him. Which is the main reason it isn’t worth remembering, in Aziraphale’s opinion. All his best memories have always had Crowley in them).

Not that the months after Adam rebooted the world and things got back to normal are really anything special. There have always been decades and centuries that stand out in Aziraphale’s mind - the late sixteenth century, for Shakespeare, and the late nineteenth, for Oscar. This isn't one of those. The only thing that’s different now is how _free_ he suddenly is. He hadn’t realized just how much it weighed on him, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if Gabriel or Michael were watching, second guessing every decision to see if it went along with the divine plan. Making every decision knowing the consequences if it was the wrong one. Aziraphale shudders inwardly. He’s very glad to be done with all that. He’s always _enjoyed_ things, to the utmost whenever possible. But he realizes he’s only been truly, freely _happy_ during those times when he was sure Heaven would leave him alone, and even then he was always on his guard. There’s nothing to stop him from being happy all the time now. From doing what he likes, enjoying what he likes without worry. It feels as if he’s floating - no, flying, with nothing to hold him down. 

Well, except for the worry that it will all suddenly disappear. He’s not used enough yet to the idea that Heaven (or Hell) will actually leave them alone. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. But then, Aziraphale doesn’t feel quite like himself if he doesn’t have _something_ to worry about.

Of course, the main reason Aziraphale is so happy and counts this time as one of the best in his existence is Crowley’s near-constant presence. After they got done switching places and guaranteeing each other’s freedom, they’ve spent every day together. Most nights, too. Crowley still makes an attempt to go back to his flat every night. Sometimes he even gets there. More often, they’re so drunk by the early hours of the morning it’s much less effort for him to just stay, and they’ve spent several lovely evenings in the never-used-before bed in Aziraphale’s flat, Crowley sleeping curled around Aziraphale, who uses the time to read. And then each day they find something interesting to do before going out for dinner and coming back for a nightcap. Or they don’t. Sometimes Aziraphale just opens the bookshop as normal and Crowley lounges on his sofa sending potential customers away with temptations. It doesn’t matter what they do, Aziraphale decides. As long as they’re doing it together it’s exactly what he wants, and it seems to be what Crowley wants too.

Though that is something of a mystery to Aziraphale. Oh, he can tell how happy Crowley is to just sit across from him and argue whether _Don Giovanni_ is better than _The Magic Flute_ after several bottles of wine. It’s not even as if that’s new, really. Crowley has always followed Aziraphale from theater to restaurant to bookshop, as if there’s never been anything he wanted to do other than sit there and watch Aziraphale enjoy himself. If Aziraphale couldn’t feel the constant aura of love the demon is giving off (now that he can finally feel it unhindered by Hell), he’d wonder why. But it is apparently true that Crowley does just love him enough to be happy to do anything as long as it means they’re together. 

It’s the biggest reason Aziraphale has never been happier in six thousand years. It’s just.

Just.

Well, it really starts the day they’re walking along the river, through the park. A little line of ducks is following them, used to being fed, and Crowley is trying to shoo them away. Aziraphale then tries to shoo Crowley away before miracling up a bag of mixed duck food and scattering it on the water. He looks up at Crowley, who’s got that soft look on his face that tells Aziraphale he’s beaming too brightly.

(Crowley told him once that he just has _too damn nice a smile, angel, everyone’s going to think you’re like that with everyone, not just me_. Aziraphale had shot right back with an offended humph that his smiles weren’t _only_ for Crowley. In truth, there is so much to be happy about he can’t stop it. He never could).

Perhaps _because_ he has too nice a smile, Crowley puts an arm around his waist and squeezes gently (all the more reason to smile _more_, not less, Aziraphale thinks, if Crowley’s going to keep doing that). They pass by a pair of women who glance up and down at Crowley appreciatively before looks of mild surprise cross their faces when they see Aziraphale. Which is a bit rude, in Aziraphale’s opinion. It’s not as if male couples are unusual anymore; after several centuries of the most frightful intolerance things finally seem to be going the other way, so they really shouldn’t be so obvious about it. He puts it out of his mind as they start figuring out where to go for lunch. Or he would if the cashier at the cafe they decide on didn't have the same reaction.

But then it happens again, this time when they’re at a bar of Crowley’s choice, at the same time as a stag party. Aziraphale is making the best of it, enjoying the rainbow colored cocktail Crowley brought him (it hadn’t come with an umbrella, but Crowley miracles one for him when he sees how disappointed Aziraphale is). “They do look like they’re having fun, don’t they?” Aziraphale asks, watching the party and remembering several noblemen’s stag dos he’s been at over the centuries.

“Ehh, one of ours,” Crowley says.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says, then remembers something. “Didn’t _you_ invent the stag night? That time in Nineveh?”

“Er, yeah, might have done,” Crowley says. “That whole thing after that with the whale and the fire and brimstone though, that was all your side.”

“Not my side anymore, Crowley,” Aziraphale says warningly. He’d rather not be reminded of Heaven right now. “And there ended up not being any fire and brimstone in the end. Had to go all the way up to Ninevah for nothing.” 

“Ah, come off it, angel, you stayed there for decades afterwards,” Crowley says.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault their library was one of the best in the world!” Aziraphale says, and Crowley grins fondly. He starts to get up to get them a second round when a tall, drunk young man who Aziraphale has noticed looking longingly at the stag night partiers comes over. 

“Didn’t see you come in,” the drunk man says, nodding at Crowley, who barely glances at him. “You with them?”

“No,” Crowley says, as rudely as he can get away with saying. It doesn't stop the fellow, though, because he just leans on the table and smiles at Crowley. Aziraphale huffs and moves over automatically to give him room.

“Not really my scene, this,” the nameless time-waster says, sighing toward the now-chanting horde of men at the bar counter. He looks Crowley up and down, taking in his tight black jeans and good quality jacket. “We could go somewhere,” he says. Aziraphale realizes now that the man is _propositioning_ Crowley. He starts to splutter angrily but Crowley just waves a hand as if he could swat the annoying fellow away like a fly.

"Want to go home, angel?" Crowley asks, ignoring the interloper and smiling at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale takes a breath and smiles. "Yes, I think so. You know I have a very good Remy Martin that will do nicely for a nightcap after all this."

The drunk propositioner glances at Aziraphale as if he’s only just noticed him, then turns back to Crowley. “You could have just said you were taken,” he says, sounding annoyed. He looks Aziraphale up and down again and scoffs at Crowley. “You could do better, mate.”

Suddenly the surprised looks and raised eyebrows make sense. It has nothing to do with them both being male-shaped beings and everything to do with people being surprised that someone like Crowley would choose to be with someone like Aziraphale. Aziraphale's face flushes in embarrassment and Crowley has, in a matter of seconds, called up his favorite aspect, the viper's head he last used to scare paintballers at Tadfield Manor. He snarls viciously and the drunk guy falls backward into the crowd with a thump and several cries of surprise from nearby partiers. Crowley doesn't wait, just grabs Aziraphale's hand and pulls him outside where he proceeds to stomp through the streets, causing everyone who passes (and a few surprised trash bins) to scurry out of the way.

However disappointing it is that even on Earth no one seems to think he and Crowley should be together, Aziraphale has never been one to make scenes if he can help it, and Crowley stomping through the streets is starting to draw attention. Besides, there’s no use getting worked up over something so obvious. Aziraphale lets go of Crowley's hand and links his hand through Crowley’s arm instead, forcing him to slow down. “You know you really mustn’t let these things get to you,” Aziraphale says calmly. Crowley stops and manages to look shocked behind his dark glasses. 

“It’s not _me_, Aziraphale, it’s what he said about you!” Crowley splutters, staring at Aziraphale in disbelief.

Oh, his dear Crowley is always so loyal. He’s always come to Aziraphale’s rescue, whether it’s in a cell in the Bastille or from rude, drunken men in bars. But, really, he doesn’t need Crowley to take on everyone who ever looks at him funny. They’ve just stopped a war; he doesn’t want to start another one. “It isn’t as if I’m not used to it, my dear,” Aziraphale finally says.

“Used to it?” Crowley asks, sounding thoroughly confused. Aziraphale glances at him, sure he’s pretending for Aziraphale’s sake. Except Crowley has never lied to him, so it must be true that he really doesn’t understand why Aziraphale would be used to scenes like that.

Bu Aziraphale doesn’t understand how Crowley has never noticed it before. Crowley is...well, he’s _Crowley_. Always the most handsome man in any room he’s in, except on those handful of occasions when he’s the most alluring woman in the room. He’s always the height of fashion, from his clothes to his car to his...well, everything. Crowley exudes what Aziraphale is fairly certain is known as “cool” and possibly “sexy.” He’s not entirely sure Crowley didn’t actually invent both concepts. Aziraphale is...well, he isn’t any of those. 

“Aziraphale, what are you-oh,” Crowley’s voice takes on a hard edge. “This is about Gabriel.”

Actually, until Crowley brought him up, Aziraphale hadn’t been thinking about Gabriel at all. But now he realizes that yes, this has been about Gabriel, at least partially. The archangel always enjoyed bringing up Aziraphale’s failure to live up to Heavenly standards, whether it was his love of earthly things like books and theatre and food to his unwillingness to cause harm if it could at all be avoided to his weight. And it isn’t as if Aziraphale ever _enjoyed_ that, but. Well, Gabriel had been right in the end, hadn’t he? Aziraphale had thrown Heaven aside, allying himself with a demon (never mind falling in love with said demon) and choosing Earth with all its corporeal pleasures over Heaven. Casting off Heaven had been a freeing, cathartic moment but he couldn't help feeling as if it had proved them all right.

“Angel, I’ve told you, if I ever see that holier-than-thou _arse_ again I swear to _Satan_ I’ll murder him,” Crowley says now.

“Oh, Crowley, that’s not really necessary,” Aziraphale says, blushing. “No need to start the war over again. Besides, I’m quite over that now.” Crowley gives him a look that says he doesn’t believe that at all, which is probably because it’s not true. Crowley has always been able to see through any lies Aziraphale has ever tried to tell. This was rather more useful when he said things like _we’re not friends_ when what he meant was _I love you_. “Why bother about what _they_ think now that we’re finally free?” Aziraphale continues. It is lovely to be free and to be with Crowley, and the mere thought brings a smile to his face. Even though he still has this nagging feeling of disbelief, as if this all shouldn’t be real. Or perhaps just dread that it will all get taken away, as if it’s too good to be true. “I sometimes wonder how I managed to get so lucky.” 

Crowley doesn’t take the bait. “I’m not thrown off topic that easily, Aziraphale,” he says warningly.

“Oh, well, I thought it was worth a try,” Aziraphale says. “It is true, you know.”

“You still can’t tell me it doesn’t bother you,” Crowley says. “If it bothers _me_, Aziraphale, and I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“Of course you do, my dear. Otherwise you wouldn’t get so upset,” Aziraphale answers. “You just don’t care what Hell thinks.” He sighs. “It isn’t so much that I don’t _mind_. Of course I’d like it if everyone didn’t look at us as if I didn’t belong at your side.”

“Do they?” Crowley asks, and now Aziraphale is certain he must be lying. There’s no way he can’t have noticed.

“You can’t pretend you don’t see it, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “You’re - well, you’re very _tempting_, you know. In every sense. And it fits you, of course, original tempter, Serpent of Eden and all that but I’m...well, I’m _not_.” He smiles a little bashfully and glances down at himself. He's always been fond of his corporation, in the comfortable way one becomes fond of anything one gets used to for long enough, but he's very aware of how he comes across. The best that can be said about his appearance is that he's pleasant, in the way kind old men who might be confused for Father Christmas are pleasant. He somewhat self consciously runs a hand over his waistcoat where it covers his stomach. “I’m certainly not a match for you, my dear.”

Crowley stares at him, looking dumbfounded. “You’ve managed to tempt me, all these years. Centuries,” he finally says. “And I know tempting. Original tempter and all.” He reaches down and takes Aziraphale’s hand. “And what do you mean, a _match_ for me? Come on, Aziraphale. What are you really saying?”

“I - oh, I don’t know!” Azirapahle bursts out. He knows what he _wants_ to say, but not _how_ to say it. He also knows what he _doesn’t_ want to say. He wants to tell Crowley how incredibly happy he is that they can finally be together but also that he doesn’t feel he quite deserves it. That all those people who give them odd looks are only seeing things clearly. But he doesn’t know how to say that without also saying that he thinks Crowley shouldn’t love him quite this much, when that happens to be exactly what Aziraphale wants. He settles for saying, “It’s just that I'm sure everyone thinks you’re settling for a-a soft, frumpy old bookseller when you could have a model or one of those bebop musicians you like so much or any attractive young man like the one in that bar.” That doesn’t really describe it, not at all. At this point, Aziraphale is rather wishing he hadn’t brought it up at all.

“Why does it never occur to anyone that I might actually _like_ soft, frumpy old booksellers?” Crowley asks. "Well, just one, really. The rest are all your competition. Give me the word and I'll put them out of business."

“For goodness sake, Crowley, don't do that! Then everyone will come and try to buy my books," Aziraphale says, distracted. Which, from Crowley’s smile, is exactly what he wants. “Oh, you serpent,” he says, making himself sound annoyed.

“Really, though,” Crowley says. “It’s true. Who cares what anyone else thinks, Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s right, of course. But then Crowley is almost always right, and that leads Aziraphale into thinking again about how wonderful Crowley is and how he’s always been there to get Aziraphale out of trouble and as a partner for the nicest lunches and dinners and theater outings even before they could actually be together. Now that they can, it’s as if Crowley had actually been holding back all those years. He acts as if there’s nothing he wants more than to indulge Aziraphale’s every whim. He’s constantly buying Aziraphale treats from their favorite ice cream truck in the park, turning up at the bookshop with bouquets of flowers he grew himself, helping him reshelve the books he actually wants put away, finding little out of the way places to try for dinner. That doesn’t even count the hugs, the hand holding, the kisses...Aziraphale blushes just thinking about it. The air around him is constantly full of love and Crowley shows it to him in a thousand different ways. It’s such a lovely feeling that if Aziraphale weren’t still hesitant to blaspheme he’d admit to himself that it’s better than anything he’s ever felt, even from God.

That starts Aziraphale thinking along another, equally unwelcome line of thought. Crowley does so much for him, and he’s never once asked for anything. Not even an apology for all the years Aziraphale pushed him away. Not even for turning back to Heaven during the debacle that nearly ended the world. If anyone knew, they’d only wonder what Crowley sees in him even more. His conscience, or perhaps just his stomach, squirms with guilt. He can’t possibly be a match for Crowley outwardly; the least he could do is strive to match him inwardly. And he can’t even do that.

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hands back. “You’ve made me so very happy, Crowley, these last few months. I just can’t help wondering what it is _you’re_ getting.” 

“What I’m _getting_? This isn’t a business transaction,” Crowley says, looking shocked. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me, do you? Just by - just by _existing_.”

“Oh, but Crowley, that can’t be all,” Aziraphale says. He can’t possibly be making Crowley as happy as Crowley has made him just by standing here. It’s not possible. “I spent all those centuries pushing you away, lying to myself about you, and all you’ve ever done is be kinder to me than anyone else. I’m never going to be able to properly make it up to you.”

Crowley looks confused. “Er, the part where you possessed a body and chose me over Heaven doesn’t count, then?”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Aziraphale says crossly.

“I really don’t,” Crowley answers. “I _like_ making you happy, angel. It makes you smile.” He smiles himself as he says it, that soft little grin that Aziraphale sees so rarely, even now. As if there could be no better reward than getting to see Aziraphale smile.

The thought that Crowley does everything he does just to see Aziraphale smile is the most wonderful thing Aziraphale has ever heard. And Aziraphale can tell Crowley really means it. It just...shouldn’t be real. Not after everything they’ve been through. Crowley deserves so much more than just a smile here and there. “But I lied to you all those years,” Aziraphale finally says. “Trying to be what Heaven wanted, making you wait.”

"Oh, yeah but that doesn't matter. Not anymore," Crowley says dismissively. "Besides, it's not like I didn't know why you did. We saw what would have happened, didn't we?"

Aziraphale swallows nervously. They had. Hellfire. Holy water. He still thinks about that bathtub sometimes, with a huge flood of relief that Agnes’s prophecy had actually worked. That Crowley hadn't been destroyed. And the Hellfire...

“You saved our lives, angel," Crowley says softly. "Literally, in my case. Twice, with the holy water you gave me and going down to Hell in my place."

Aziraphale knows this is all true. He's spent six thousand years reminding himself what the consequences would be before they could finally safely end up here. But still…

“And let me tell you, Aziraphale, it was worth it. Every second, just to get here in the end,” Crowley says. “Sure, it would have been nice if we could have had all those centuries but it was still worth it.” He shifts nervously on his feet. “Always thought it would be. Since Eden.”

Aziraphale stares at him. “Well, now I’ll never find a way to make that up to you.”

“But that's what I'm saying. You don’t have to make it up to me,” Crowley says. “You don’t have to try so hard. You don’t have to try at all, Aziraphale. Not with me. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

As usual, Crowley has got to the heart of it. Aziraphale isn’t used to not having to _try_. He constantly had to strive to be anything other than what he was for Heaven, and unconsciously, he realizes, he’s been doing the same with Crowley. As if he needs to be something other than himself when Crowley has said so many times that he doesn’t. Why hasn’t Aziraphale ever believed him? Worse, he knows exactly what Crowley feels like, because it’s exactly the same as he feels. Crowley doesn’t actually have to do anything to make him happy other than stand there. Aziraphale knows he would move Heaven and Earth all over again just to see Crowley grin that small, soft grin at him. Is it so much to believe that Crowley would feel the same?

No, no, of course it’s not. What’s hard to believe is that Aziraphale deserves him to.

In answer, Aziraphale just wraps an arm around Crowley’s waist and manages to snuggle into him while they’re walking. “You are wonderful to me, Crowley. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just a bit hard to...talk oneself out of it, sometimes.”

Crowley just reaches out and hugs Aziraphale tightly, burying his face in the angel’s neck. “Point out the next person who looks at you like that,” he says dreamily. “I’ll send them to Siberia.”

“Now, I don’t think they deserve _that_,” Aziraphale says. “Perhaps you should save it for Gabriel.”

Crowley bursts out laughing. “Oh, angel, I love you.” A wonderful thrill goes through Aziraphale’s whole being at the words. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to hearing it. 

He rather hopes he doesn’t. That each time gives him just as much of a thrill.


End file.
